The Standard Grand

by Jay Baron Nicorvo

  Tyro pointed at Ellis, who extended them out of the window. Tyro, quicker than the cop couched in goose down and fat, snatched them, flipped through the documents, said, “All’s in order,” and passed them to the officer, who shot Tyro a who’s-this-guy look as he tucked the flashlight in his armpit and studied the paperwork. “Ellis Baum?”

  “That’s me.”

  “And Ray Tyra.”

  “Tyro. Sounds like Chino. Or Keno.”

  The cop narrowed eyes at Tyro and addressed Ellis: “Line of work.”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  The cop looked hard at Tyro. “And you?”

  “Unemployed.”

  “He works for me,” Ellis said.

  The cop said, “Can’t be both.”

  “He works part time. Does consulting.”

  The cop asked, “Kind of consulting?”

  “Private investigation,” Ellis said.

  “Let him answer.”

  Tyro said, “Like the man said.”

  “We’re between contracts,” Ellis said. “He’s never been fishing on the reservoir, wanted to get out before it froze—I fish but refuse to drill holes in ice—so here we are.”

  “Alright,” the cop said, “so let’s see your gear, make sure you’ve not already got your limit or’re over, that you’re not transporting dope, firewood, gypsy moths, emerald ash borers, or snakeheads. Then you can be on your snowy way.”

  “Snakeheads?”

  The cop told Tyro that it was a kind of fish. “Crazy thing, in middle age, develops what they call a labyrinth organ lets it breathe air. See them flopping their way over land. Can survive a four-day crossing so long as they stay moist. Been known to migrate a quarter mile. We call them Fishzilla.”

  “I promise you,” Ellis said, “we have no snakeheads. We haven’t even gone out yet.”

  Tyro said, “Just refuse, Mr. Baum, you’re a lawyer.”

  “You’re a lawyer,” the cop said to Ellis, “so enlighten your partner here. Right now, I’m looking at a Terry exception.”

  To Tyro, Ellis said, “Game wardens have more leeway than regular cops to conduct warrantless searches.” Ellis said, “The ax?”

  “His ax gives me cause to search the car and any containers. Not that I need the ax. You’re on the reservoir in the fucking snow. That’s probable cause enough.” The cop shivered. “Alright, enough of the run-around. Let’s pop the trunk. We’re done dallying.”

  Ellis cut off the engine. He climbed out of the car and shambled to the trunk. Opening it, he watched Tyro, gave his head a slight shake. If things started to go bad, the ex–Army Ranger in his employ would go rogue. Ellis would be facing an accessory to aggravated assault charge—the least worst outcome. He opened the trunk, slowly, his heart about to blow. “Here we have poles, broken down and dry. Brand new lantern.”

  “What’s in the cooler?”

  “Not snakeheads.” Ellis flipped the lid with a shaky hand. “Nothing, not even ice, which I apparently forgot.”

  “It’s snowing out,” Tyro said.

  “No bait? Only thing hitting in this cold’s the walleyes. For them you need shiners.”

  “We don’t believe in bait,” Tyro said.

  “Or you aren’t here to fish.”

  “I’ve got a couple jars of egg sacks,” Ellis said, “a tackle box of lures.”

  Tyro said, “Who needs bait when you have diaper wipes.”

  The cop said, “Diaper wipes?” He leaned into the trunk. “Little old to have an infant.”

  Tyro’s hand reached behind the small of his back.

  Again Ellis shook his head. When Tyro didn’t stand down, Ellis said, “My two kids are grown. My age, you don’t have wipes for an infant. You have them for accidents.”

  The cop said, “Accidents?”

  “You need me to say incontinence?”

  “Yeah?” The cop’s grin dimpled his big cheeks. “Didn’t take note of a birthdate. You don’t look a day over fifty.”

  “Very kind. But, you wait, you get to be my age—I’m fifty-eight—you too will start driving around with a tub or two of wipes in your trunk. And a change of underwear.”

  “Alright,” the cop said. “Seen, and heard, about enough. Just don’t go tossing your crappy wipes in my reservoir.” He closed the trunk, told them to stay safe, and warm. “Remember, three trout. Season ends on the thirtieth. Three walleye. That’s your limit. Land a snakehead, come find me.” He left them and climbed in his vehicle but didn’t drive off.

  “Guess you got no choice but to get in the boat with me now, Mr. Baum. Don’t want to ruin our cover.”

  “How are you gonna go calling attention to the Wet Ones?”

  “Worked, didn’t it. And you were quick on your feet, self-effacing under the gun. Be careful, I might get to like you.”

  “He’s not gone yet. You could still get us arrested.”

  “This guy? Nah. Now let’s catch a late dinner. Spend a little quality man time. Do us both good. Could use some seafood in my diet.”

  * * *

  The cougar stops on the deer trail. Opens his mouth. Tastes snowy night air. He huffs, licks whiskers. Late-born fawn. Many nights ago. A tang wets his mouth, twists his empty gut. Then, there’s what he’s after. The odor dizzies him. Fallen apples when soft. He pads along the path through snow. Whiffs of creatures. Oily scent of stags, high sweetness of does. Hollow of a downed tree, he rears away. Blinding smoke-musk of sleeping skunk. Nose to the path. Bumps it against snowy ground. Sight fails when closest. Wet soil under snow. Rotting leaves. Sulfur of bird droppings. Rodents mostly, foul. Squirrel, mouse, vole. A scavenger, he ate them before he mastered the hunt. Farther downtrail, rubbings of a male mink. Other hints. His hackles twitch. Dogs. Fainter, days old. Catching wind of a lone vixen. Smelling sinewy. Trunk of a great tree. Here he spent entire days. Edge of a meadow. Overlooks a deer scratch. Home of his greatest catch. Two deer at once. Killed at dusk. The male pounced on from above. Bite to the back. Doe trapped beneath the stag. He ate the doe’s innards. Dragged the warm carcass, open, to his mother’s den, cold. No scent of her. He called. Her scream a confusion. He calling into her den, she calling back. Weak, sounding like him. He fled trembling. He returned to his stag. Spent days eating. Gamely chasing off the yipping dogs. Dogs he usually flees from.

  * * *

  The vast reservoir. Dark like sleep, like death, thought Ellis. His sleep, his death, and Tyro the boatman. They floated through snowfall. Shadowy mountains reared around them, more a force, gravitational, than a sight. Barehanded Tyro rowed. The surface of the water lay placid, the wind barely there, snow falling to become the reservoir. The fathomless abyss—overhead, underneath. Ellis felt pressed between two slabs.

  The oars splished, oarlocks grinded. “Wasn’t being totally honest, Mr. Baum.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me.” Ellis had trouble striking a match. “What are we talking about?”

  “When I said I never considered hurting you. Has occurred to me. Occurred to me that I could kill you and sink your body out here.”

  “You do anything to me,” Ellis told him, “it’ll take the authorities an hour to pin you down as a suspect.” There were five, six dud matchsticks in the puddle under his boots.

  “That how you think I operate?”

  “Just know I’ve taken precautions. I turn up missing, someone will go through my recent filings, see I applied for a guest pass. Your name and driver’s license will be there.”

  “You think that information will lead them to me?”

  “The DEP aren’t just on the roads,” Ellis told him. “They’re up in helicopters. They use satellites. They patrol the reservoir with drones. They’re always watching. Besides, I know from your file you’ve worked interrogations. Cross-examinations use the same tactics. You’re not going to hurt me. This is the intimidation before the ask.”

  “I don’t need details at the outset, Mr. Baum. Just give me a target and—”

&n
bsp; “Some cash.”

  “Makes the world go round. Thanks to you, I can relax for the next few years.”

  “So, what,” Ellis said, “you want to know who’s paid you a hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars?”

  “For starters.”

  Ellis shook his head. “Can’t. I’m bound by certain principles.”

  “Don’t give me that attorney-client privilege crap.”

  Ellis holds his hands to the lit lantern throwing heat, vaporizing snowflakes that land on its hood. “Let me ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Where’s my landman?”

  “Thought you arranged for her to be here.”

  “I did.”

  “Well?”

  Ellis said, “Haven’t seen or heard from her.”

  “Funny you should bring her up.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Let me make my pitch. If, after, you tell me I’m being irrational, that I’ve gone overboard—” Tyro reached his hand over the gunwale, cupped water and rubbed his beard. “—I won’t be offended.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  “You won’t get reception out here.”

  “Just give it to me, Ellis.”

  He produced a phone as thick as a puck. He handed it to Tyro.

  “A BlackBerry? Tell you what, I’m gonna help you out.”

  Ellis waited.

  Tyro flung his arm out over the reservoir, his hand empty when he set it in his lap. A moment later—splash.

  “You did not.”

  “Did.”

  “That’s my whole entire absolutely everything.”

  “Need to make sure you’re not recording this conversation.”

  “How would I be recording this conversation with my Stone Age phone? You could’ve just shut if off.”

  “Don’t you have everything synched with your computer?”

  “I don’t know. My daughter does that stuff for me.” Ellis started casting his pole in the direction of the splash.

  “What will you pay me?”

  “Haven’t I paid you enough?”

  “For a rendition. Say I did kidnap this lady landman of yours.”

  “Kidnap my—no, no, no. You were hired to watch, to listen and gather information. There is nothing illegal about what you’ve been contracted to do. Unethical, maybe, but criminal? No. We’re not careering into first-degree felonies here.”

  “Just wanted to hear it from the horse. Thought maybe if your bosses really wanted Wright out of the way, it wouldn’t be hard to pin a kidnapping charge on him. Probably wouldn’t stick, but an investigation could add enough pressure that he’d cave.”

  “You mean set up the landowner?” Ellis stopped casting. “Make it look like he took my landman?”

  “Now wait just a second, Baum, what you’re suggesting is decidedly criminal and I don’t want any part of it. I, too, live by a creed, and part of that creed says that under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country. You asking me to embarrass my country?”

  “Cute.”

  “What if the girl got kidnapped wasn’t your girl? What about the new lady vet that Wright’s now billeting. What if it was her went missing?”

  “No women will go missing, understand?”

  “Easy, Baum, you’re gonna tip us. We are not close to shore, it’s cold and I’m in much better shape.”

  “I’m fatter. More buoyant, better insulated.”

  Tyro’s fishing reel whined, something pulling out line, and he jerked it. “Might have something.” He reeled.

  “Look,” Ellis said, “under no circumstances are you to kidnap anyone, understand? These people are backed by a great deal of capital, both financial and political, but they do not engage in illegalities here at home. Outside the homeland, rules are different. Here at home, they’re willing to pay people, to lobby like crazy, give millions to Super PACs, to change laws if need be, but they don’t break laws. Bend them, sure, but only in a white-collar way. Times’ve changed. I don’t need to run rendition by them. Jesus. They don’t kidnap Americans, not even if they’re Mexican Americans. So if you’ve got this woman, I’m advising you, release her. Understand?”

  “I haven’t kidnapped anyone.”

  “Then where’s my landman?”

  Tyro said she talked with Wright for a time, about what Tyro wasn’t close enough to hear. “Didn’t have my Detect Ear on me. They talked, then Wright helped her carry her kayak and shoved her downriver. That was the last I saw of her.”

  “You swear to that?”

  “On the bodies of all of the fallen Rangers I’ve dragged to safety under fire.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll extend your contract, same rate but under—”

  “You think just because I’ve hired out to you I’m always for rent?”

  “Double, thousand dollars a day.”

  “Deal. What am I doing?”

  “You find me my landman.”

  “You got a file on her?”

  “I’ve got a file on everyone. Can we be done here? I’m freezing.”

  “Not till I land this thing.”

  “Cut the line.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said. “Paddle us that way. I’ll reel, you row.”

  They were quiet, the only sound the uneven slap of the oars.

  Tyro’s line grew perpendicular to the water. He reeled and his pole curled. “Think I might have something, Ellis.” He reeled quicker, then stopped. “Think it’s your phone?” He reeled in the last of the line. On the far side of the red-and-white bobber, at the end of the leader, was a small walleye.

  “Not a keeper,” Ellis said. “Not even close.”

  “But I’m starving. How big does it have to be?”

  “In the State of New York, fish has to be bigger than your penis, otherwise you have to throw it back. Can we go now?”

  “I’m keeping this fish.”

  “Come on, last thing we need is to get busted for having an undersized walleye.”

  As Ellis rowed toward shore shaking his head, Tyro gutted the gasping fish with a black-blade knife that zipped through scales, through bone. He tossed the head overboard but not before plucking and eating the eyes. With his teeth, he pulled off a hunk of belly meat. Chewing, he offered the cleaned fish to Ellis, who shook his head, trying not to gag.

  The bottom of the boat scraped the bank of the reservoir. “How’re you getting back to your camp?”

  “Was planning on killing you and stealing your car. But now I’ve come to like you. Didn’t have a contingency. Didn’t have a father growing up, either.”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “Just opening up a little, Ellis.”

  “How about I give you a lift.”

  “Was hoping you’d say that.”

  “We’ll stop by my office for the Canek file. But first, wash those hands.”

  * * *

  The autumn snowstorm, officially a nor’easter, dumped historic amounts of snow on the upper Catskills. Hunter and Tannersville reported receiving over four feet in forty-eight hours. Evangelína couldn’t get out of the B&B driveway. She had no phone reception. The internet was down. When the snow eventually slowed, Bruce offered her the use of his snow blower; he failed to offer her help. She felt more like an employee than a guest, but after two cooped days with nothing to do but pore over the Standard portfolio, she was grateful for the hours it took her to excavate her rental car. Then came the long drive to the sporting-goods store twenty miles away. She got fitted for winter cross-trainers that the salesman billed as the shoe for people who run even when the postman stays in, socks that boasted graduate degrees, futuristic snowshoes, trekking poles, a pulk, an LED headlamp, a watch, a lime parka, and a pair of pink-and-black bib snowpants, the brighter the better. She demanded that her snow attire be able to comfortably accommodate her weight vest, which she brought with her to the store. The salesman, a scruffy Catskill tr
eehugger no older than twenty, told her, “You’re hardcore.” The manager wouldn’t let her return the kayak, which she’d paid for in cash. She charged the bill on her debit card. Now that she had a plan, she was less concerned about being traced, and she saved the receipt to be reimbursed.

  * * *

  The cougar pads into fresh snow. Birds complain, flit overhead. His hunger a bird. At a rock outcropping, he lingers. Traces of a coyote pack. Rank bitches. Reeking of scat and the dead. Darkness after deer. Smelling prey in snow, not seeing, not hearing. Under the deer odors, the thickest, headiest of all. Human. Powerfully spicy and sour. Men make a rank wind. Not terrible, not as repulsive as dogs. The smell of the men is his fear. His muscles tense. Then, another scent he’s on. Newer, stronger, a surprise. It doesn’t push away. It pulls along. A human bitch.

  * * *

  In the early morning dark, the blue hull still strapped to the hood of her rental, Evangelína parked as close as she could to the Standard, three miles from the north gate. All but the major roads were still impassable. She geared up and headed out before the sun rose, a light snow falling, thrilled and already exhausted.

  Her headlamp bored a tunnel through the icy dark, dark that opened a few feet before her and collapsed claustrophobically behind. The silence, insulated by a calm ocean of snow, was shocking. The first mile seemed to go endlessly on. Her snowshoes—part trampoline, part frypan—were clumsy and heavy. She’d chosen snowshoes to be louder, slower, her tracks bigger and more noticeable, but it was a hell of a workout, increased by the pulk pulled behind her and the added twenty-pound load of her weight vest, which was feeling excessive.

  In her new gear over strange terrain, her pace was wacky, her arms flailing, her feet overburdened, one calf sore. The trekking poles burned her bi- and triceps. Normally, she ran like a chicken, arms tucked against her ribcage. With no sense of minutes passing, little notion of her route, she headed east, toward the Standard, in the middle of a white road not plowed nor disturbed by other tracks—during her runs, when she’s most in the moment, she abides by a mantra: ts’oksah beh—finish a road. Now nothing counts, nothing save hitting her stride and sustaining it. She’s found a rhythm in the shuffle-crunch of her snowshoes on the crusty snow—as though she’s slogging across crème brûlée—starry impressions made by the plastic baskets of her trekking poles. She’s absolutely present as she rounds a bend, stares up an ascent that’s ultraviolet in the blue glow cast by the LED lamp elastically affixed to her forehead, projecting a long cone of light that becomes her vision. Her pace slows as she climbs against the grade, half-speed, demanding twice the effort, her torso, canted forward, nearly perpendicular to the incline. Summiting the hill, there’s no wind. The breeze she feels on her cheeks is of her own making. She trudges past scat of some kind, like a huge hamburger in an icy divot along the roadside, tremendous tracks running toward and away from it—bear?